


Not So Pleasant, Conventional

by ghostpunx (Taylorwayero)



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angry Sex, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-02
Updated: 2014-02-02
Packaged: 2018-01-10 22:26:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1165289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taylorwayero/pseuds/ghostpunx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete and Patrick don't get along.<br/>Then they do.<br/>It's not that easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not So Pleasant, Conventional

**Author's Note:**

> Props to my gf Jules for beta-ing and inflating my ego more than anyone ever should.

**November**

When his instructor had said she would be picking partners for the first project of the year, Patrick just sighed and slumped in his chair. He honestly couldn’t have cared less. Joe hadn’t been put in any of his classes this year, so he didn’t really care who he got paired up with. It wasn’t until he heard his own name partnered with “Pete Wentz” that he began to panic. This would not go well. 

Pete was the weird kid at the back of the class with black hair who wore make-up. He made Patrick nervous, not to mention he was a total slacker. Patrick groaned, pulling the brim of his hat far over his eyes.

Pete was happily waltzing over to his desk with a grin. His teeth were too big. Patrick could see ink peeking out from Pete’s collar.  
“Hey. So we’re partners, I guess.”  
Patrick cringed.  
“I guess.”  
They had two weeks to create a psyche presentation. Simple enough, but Patrick still didn’t feel like doing all the work. He told Pete so, relishing the way his smile faltered for a quick second.  
“Of course not! I wouldn’t do that to that you. That would suck.”  
Patrick didn't trust him. He'd seen the way Pete slept through classes, heard his sighs as he collected failing grade after failing grade. He didn't try; had no reason to begin now. Patrick leveled him with a skeptical look.  
Pete ran back to his desk, shifting through his messy binder. He returned with a crumpled wad of papers covered in his own chickenscratch. 

“I even have uh...some idea of what we could...um...do?” He clutched the papers close to his chest, and carefully placed one on the table. Patrick glanced over at it. It was some of the most incredible writing he had ever seen. Of course, he refused to give Pete the satisfaction of knowing he impressed him, so he kept his doubtful scowl.

“I do slam poetry sometimes at this coffee shop not too far from my house. I thought maybe we could explore various mental disorders and write from different people’s perspectives.”

And that… _that was brilliant_. Patrick was actually sort of blown away by how creative it was.  
“Dude that’s...sort of awesome.”  
“Thanks,” Pete mumbled, a blush creeping up into his face.

Patrick felt bad. He had judged Pete before even meeting him. He had been such a dick. He offered him a small smile, and Pete grinned back, oblivious. Maybe the project wouldn’t be so painful after all.  
-  
Of course that was before Patrick found out Pete was an enormous douche bag. The worst part about it was that he was the sneaky kind of douche. He was sweet and charming and had almost had Patrick convinced he wasn’t such a bad dude. 

It probably started with the orange juice.  
Actually, yeah, it was definitely the orange juice.

Two days after being assigned as partners, Pete had agreed to meet Patrick after school to work on the project. He was late, which really should have tipped Patrick off that something was up. When he came in, his clothes were different and his hair was neatly ironed and styled. So that was weird…  
“Hey, I’m really sorry I’m late. I totally lost track of time.” Pete said as he slung his battered backpack over one shoulder. “I wrote up some stuff you should check out.”

And ok, that was kind of rude. Weren’t they supposed to be working together? He had been afraid of Pete leaving him to prepare on his own, but now he seemed fine without him.  
“Um...ok.” Patrick offered, trying not to let the annoyance show in his voice. Pete hovered in the door, and Patrick wish he wouldn’t be such a polite asshole and just walk in already so Patrick could justify being pissed off.  
“You can just come in,” He mumbled,”make yourself comfortable.”  
Pete strode in, smiling apologetically and sunk into Patrick’s couch. Patrick focused on being a good host.

“Do You want something to drink? We have...orange juice. That’s it.”  
“Sure.” 

So Patrick poured him some orange juice. It was a simple enough task. However, Patrick couldn’t help but notice the way Pete’s adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he drank, the stubble on his throat. Patrick didn’t even notice he’d been caught staring until the glass hit the floor, shattering into a million tiny pieces.

“Fuck!” Patrick yelled, rushing to collect the shards and cutting his hand in this process. Pete just stood there, staring at him with wide eyes and a horrified expression.

“I...oh god...I’m...I have to go.” He stammered, grabbing his bag and rushing outside, not even bothering to make sure Patrick was ok or offering to help. 

Patrick kind of hated him after that.  
-

Pete avoided him for the next three days. He didn’t answer one text, one call, didn’t even respond when Pete called his name in the hallways. It wasn’t until the fourth day that Patrick finally cornered him at his locker and demanded to know what was going on.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He asked, leaning one hand against the locker so Pete couldn’t run away again, “Why are you avoiding me?”

“Patrick, I’m going to be late…” Pete looked at him, his eyes pleading,”Let me go…”

“Not until you tell me why you’re acting like such a dick.” The orange juice incident really hadn’t been that big of a deal, and yet, Pete was acting like a total drama queen.

“Patrick…”

“You know what? Fuck it, just go.” Patrick stormed off, feeling even worse.  
-

The day before their psyche project was due, Pete finally texted Patrick, inviting him over for the night to finish it. Patrick debated telling Pete to go fuck himself. In the end, he decided he needed that psyche grade more than he needed the satisfaction of rejecting Pete. Besides, he was kind of over the dumb thing anyway.  
Pete was already in his pajamas when he opened to door to invite patrick in. He already looked tired, hair a little too messy to be intentional. Patrick swallowed down a slight pang of worry.

"Are you ok?" Patrick asked, feeling overdressed.

"Huh? Oh, yeah. I probably look terrible. Insomnia’s a bitch, heh." He reached up to scratch at the nape of his neck, swaying awkwardly in the doorway. Patrick felt kind of dizzy just looking at him. He stepped in, closing the door to the chill air. 

Pete doted on him all night, oblivious to Patrick's sarcastic, "thank you mother"’s

They finished the project around 10, papers and pencils strewn around him. Patrick had discovered that he was no poet, but that it was ok, since Pete was a great enough poet for both of them. They had settled down in a nest of blankets to watch TV, thighs barely touching. Patrick pretended it didn't feel like there was an electric current through where Pete's jittery leg bumped his. The only thing really worth watching ended up being a Lord of the Rings marathon.  
They both were exhausted, slumped against the foot of Pete's bed with drooping eyelids, so it wasn't long until they had both passed out.

Patrick woke up around 4, the cold blue of the television pulling him violently from the cloud of sleep that had collected at the corners of his eyes. He went to turn it off before he stopped. There was something warm and heavy holding him back. Pete had collapsed into his side, mouth hot and wet against his neck. He swallowed hard, ignoring the way his cock twitched, and shoved Pete off of him.  
“Move!” He mumbled, any venom washed away with the bleariness of being only half-awake.  
Pete snuffled and leaned in closer. He was out like a light. Patrick shoved him again. Pete dropped to his other side, his head making a painful _thunk_ as it hit the carpet. He made a pained noise and rose, now fully awake, to level Patrick with a glare. Patrick shot him one right back that showed how unamused he was. Pete stuck out his tongue and snatched the spare blanket they had been _not_ cuddling under, stuffing it in his closet with a huff.

 

When he returned to perch on the end of the bed, one leg against Patrick’s shoulder, Patrick noticed how he looked even worse than the night before. He had dark bags hanging under eyes that were sunken and his fingers couldn’t stop twitching on his knee, which was itself bouncing of it’s own accord.  
“How much sleep did you get last night?” Patrick asked cautiously, not sure he really wanted to know.  
“Um, three hours?” Pete replied, ducking his head and offering Patrick a guilty half-smile, “I wasn’t kidding about the insomnia. Plus, I get really bad nightmares, so…” he trailed off with a shrug.  
Patrick didn’t really know how to respond to that, but he muttered an “oh. well shit,” anyway.

Pete’s stomach growled loudly in what was quickly becoming an awkward silence.  
“I’m hungry,” He whined, “let’s get food.” Before Patrick could even respond, Pete was padding drowsily to the kitchen, hellbent on making french toast.

-

**December**

The friday nights quickly became a thing, and so did Pete and Patrick. Pete clung to Patrick like a velcro koala, and in return Patrick stopped correcting people when they referred to Pete as his “friend”. Why should he? They were friends. They just weren’t best friends, even if Pete threw his arm around Patrick’s shoulder in the hallway and gave him weird nicknames. Even if Patrick looked forward to hanging out with Pete, felt a little bit less awkward in his own skin when Pete was around. They weren’t best friends. Patrick just didn’t hate Pete anymore.  
Except, Patrick was beginning to notice that him and Pete, somewhere along the way, had become a package deal. If Joe invited Patrick over to play video games, Pete came too, and Pete dragged Patrick to every single band practice Andy insisted Pete attend (“Wentz, you better start actually coming to practice if you wanna be a part of this”). Girls never talked to him, they talked to them, eyes daring to the way Pete's chin hooked around Patrick's shoulder.

 

*

Wedged next to each other on the loveseat in Pete's basement, they're in their most primal element. The buttons of the controllers are mashed beneath the pads of their fingers, clammy hands shaking.  
"Fuck you, Wentz!" Patrick ends up grumbling as his character dies a gruesome death. Pete gets up to turn off the xbox and flops back on to the loveseat, draping himself over Patrick and pressing a light kiss to his cheek.  
"Aw 'Trick, don't act so sore. Rematch?"  
It takes Patrick longer to answer than it should; he has to wait for his face to stop burning first.

 

*

It comes to Patrick during one of the most intense orgasms of his life.  
He inhales raggedly as his body tenses, his penis flush against his belly, imagining Pete in his mouth, whimpering, begging, whispering: "'Tri-ick..."-  
Oh.  
Fuck.  
And it makes Patrick...angry? He doesn't to want Pete, didn't even want him as a friend, but he can't help imagining what he tastes like, what his face looks like when he cums.  
As his breathing begins to settle down, Patrick makes a promise to himself: He's never talking to Pete again. It will be better for both of them if this...whatever between them just died. 

 

*

 

Patrick avoids every one of Pete's increasingly hysterical texts all winter break, even the defeated "merry xmas trick xo" that comes long after the rest of the texts have stopped. He feels bad ok? He really, really does, but it doesn't stop him from ignoring the buzzing in his pocket.  
When he finally gives in and answers his humiliatingly old phone, it's Joe on the other line, not Pete (Patrick does have other friends, he's not a loser) inviting him to a New Year's Eve party. It's hosted by some girl Patrick's pretty sure neither of them know but whose parents apparently have enough booze to fill a small pond. Patrick says yes, because every once in a while he needs to get drunk and do stupid shit with his friends and this just happens to be one of those times.

It turns out that all of Patrick's friends are enormous assholes and he should really reevaluate his taste in people because this is becoming a serious problem. It starts when Joe gives him this look, limbs taking up most of the back seat of Anna's beat up minivan, doing some stupid thing with his eyebrows before he sneers, (sneers! Patrick can't fucking believe Joe is a real person) at Patrick.  
"You know Pete's going to this thing tonight right?"  
Patrick emits a choked yell so loud Anna swerves for a second, snapping at them to "shut the fuck up before she leave them both to rot and/or hitchhike"  
“Okay, Jesus, I just thought he’d like to know.” Joe sticks his tongue out at Anna who flips him the bird and Patrick just wishes Anna would focus on the road so he could get out of this nothing worse than shattered dignity.

 

*

 

Patrick is on the other side of "fucking shitfaced" when Pete comes stomping towards him.  
"Hey." He says shortly, gritting his teeth. It occurs to Patrick that Pete is really pretty, and it makes him sad. Pete is pretty in the way Patrick's first girlfriend was pretty, with tight jeans and sad eyes and Patrick pretending he doesn't know what Pete's arms look like under his sweater.  
"Oh." Is all Patrick can muster in response, because boy, he fucked up.  
Pete's pissed, grabbing Patrick's arm too hard and dragging him into a narrow hallway away from the undulating mess of teenagers.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" He's crowding into Patrick's space and this is all really overwhelming. Patrick is either going to cry or punch Pete in the fucking face. How does Patrick even go about saying this? It hurts, and he just wants to go back to before he had to think about Pete Wentz. Pete Wentz, who is shaking him by the shoulders and yelling "answer me asshole!". Patrick does whatever anyone in his situation would do: he pukes on Pete's dirty converse, slumps against him, and begins to cry.

"Shit, shit, shit!" Pete might be yelling, Patrick's not sure. He feels Pete dragging him into the bathroom across the hallway, slamming the door. He collapses on the floor, gasping quiet little apologies. Pete sits him up, scrubbing at his shirt. Patrick can feel the wet cloth on his chest. Pete's shoes have been kicked in a corner, a lost cause. He's saying something along the lines of "Jesus, Patrick, it's fine, it's fine." Patrick leans heavily against him. He can't stop crying, it's taken everything to ignore Pete. He misses being a package deal, he can't believe he's so selfish. All he can think about is how much he wants Pete.  
"Patrick, oh my god, you're so drunk. What are you doing, you asshole?" Pete's voice is full of pity. Patrick tries to breathe as Pete wraps his arms around him.  
"I fucking-Pete, I...I like you..." Patrick whimpers, and the words burn his throat, tasting of bile. Patrick thinks he might throw up again.  
"I know." Pete whispers, but his voice is shaky and sad. The kids are counting down outside, and Patrick is so fucking plastered; he swears he feels Pete's lips press gently against his sweaty forehead as a new year begins.

 

**January**

 

January passes in a blur. Pete and Patrick never mention New Year's, but they start talking again. Patrick resolves to stop thinking about Pete's lips.

**February**  
Valentine’s Day passes, uneventful, and Patrick watches Pete kiss a girl at the annual Valentine’s Ball. It doesn’t hurt, but it numbs his insides and he feels something missing. It makes him retire to Joe’s house to get drunk and play video games, which turns into Patrick spilling everything to Joe in the blue-green light of Mario Kart, and ends with Joe pulling him into a huge hug and sagely imparting his wisdom onto Patrick:

“He won’t wait forever, man.”

*

Two weeks later is when it all comes crashing down on his head. Pete's heart was broken by the girl at the dance. He's sulking in Patrick's basement while Patrick is playing around with settings on his keyboard. There is an invisible string pulled taught, making the air feel near suffocating. When Pete breaks the silence, something pulls lose.  
"I didn't love her," He says, in nearly a whisper, "I didn't even really like her."  
And that...Patrick knows just what he's saying, but he refuses to take the bait.  
"You're a selfish prick, Pete." 

He hazards a glance, and catches Pete gaping at him. He might as well have punched him in the stomach. 

"What...what the _fuck_ did you just say?" He's shaking a little, rage boiling up inside him.  
"If you didn't like her, why did you even bother dating her? Just because you don't want to be alone doesn't mean you get to fuck with people's heads."  
"You don't know what you're talking about, 'Trick." He spits the nickname out like it tastes sour.

Patrick knows. He knows that Pete's been spending nights taking pills instead of sleeping, and that the scars on his wrists are like rings on a tree, keeping track of how much older hes gotten in the past year. He doesn't tell Pete any of this.

"I know you're too fucked up for anyone to love." He bites through gritted teeth. He thought he'd regret saying it immediately, but it takes a moment. The words don't settle cold and ugly in his stomach until he sees Pete stagger back. Patrick opens his mouth to say something, anything, but Pete's fist is already colliding with his jaw. He tastes blood, perhaps words dying in his mouth, and he lunges forward, crowding Pete's space. He wants to inhale every heaving exhale that comes out of Pete's mouth until he is empty inside and his lungs give out. 

"Take it back, asshole," Pete all but wheezes, tackling Patrick to the ground “ _take it back_ ”.  
“You know what this is about, Pete.”  
“I said take it _back_ , you _fucker_. You’ve never liked me. I get it. Just take it back.” Pete’s voice cracks, chokes on the words. He’s grabbed the front of Patrick shirt with one hand, the other raised in a fist and he looks like he might just crumble, fall to pieces. Patrick will have to scrape him up and pretend it doesn’t leave a dull ache in his chest.  
“Remember that stupid psyche project? You fucking hated me. And over Christmas? You dropped me like a sack of shit. You never even bothered to get to know me. And now _I’m_ selfish? _I’m_ fucked up? That’s a fucking joke!” They’re opposite sides of a battery, of a magnet, and they shouldn’t fit together like this, but they do, something tragic. It’s quiet for a moment until Pete breaks the silence again, his voice tight, breath ragged.

“What did they tell you about me ‘Trick? Did they tell you all about that kid Pete Wentz? That he’s a fag? That he’s blown the whole soccer team? That he’s a pathetic pill popping fuck-up who sucks dick for fun?” Patrick wonders if he kissed pete, if he would taste as bitter as he sounds. 

He shivers as Pete shifts on top of his hips, his dick twitching in interest. Pete notices and his eye flash dark for a fraction of a second, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. Patrick gasps as Pete’s hips grind down hard against his own, and Pete takes the opportunity to hungrily capture Patrick’s mouth with his own, swallowing a filthy moan that rolls off Patrick’s tongue. 

Pete rolls his hips along Patrick’s, and Patrick meets him thrust for thrust. The room is too hot. Patrick makes the mistake of meeting Pete’s eyes. They’re heavy lidded, glazed over and unfocused with pleasure. His mouth is wet and parted, and he dips down to suck at the pulse point behind Patrick’s ear. Patrick’s hands claw at Pete’s shirt, searching for purchase in the cotton, and Pete pauses, sits up, pulls the entire thing off. Patrick takes a moment his tattoos, the black ink on tan skin. Pete has a hand on Patrick’s zipper, leveling him with an uncertain stare.  
“God, Pete. Yeah, yes.” Is all Patrick can choke out with the little air he can keep in his lungs. Pete’s smirking. Smirking! And Patrick wants to wipe the smug look right of his face. He doesn’t have time to, because Pete has already pulled his pants off, achingly slow, and has a hand around the base of his cock. His lips, red and swollen from kissing, press gently against the head, before he swallows Patrick down. His head bobs in a delicious rhythm along with his hand, and Patrick’s lip sinks deep in his teeth. Patrick buries his fingers in Pete’s hair, panting heavily as Pete blows him on the scratchy carpet of Patrick’s basement. He can feel the sting of the floor beneath him on his shoulder blades. His hips jerk forward, and Pete stops. His lips are a shiny red when he pulls off with an obscene sound. Patrick whines at the loss of warmth, and jerks his hips up, but Pete holds him down. 

“Pete… _please_ ,” Patrick is begging, he knows, but fuck if he cares. 

Pete shudders at how far gone Patrick’s voice is, and takes him in his mouth again, he swirls his tongue and sucks until Patrick’s legs are quivering and he’s babbling nonsense that all seems to lead back to Pete. He comes with a yelp, back arching, spilling onto Pete’s hand. When his vision goes from white hot back to normal, Pete’s beside him, staring at the ceiling. 

“You meant it, didn’t you? New year’s eve?”  
“Yeah.”  
“I thought you were just drunk.”  
“I thought you were an asshole.”  
Pete turns on his side, and Patrick can see everything that he almost destroyed. 

“I didn’t mean it. I take it back,” Patrick voice is a lost cause, but he offers the apology anyway.  
“I’ve kind of been in like with you. Since the orange juice.”  
“The orange juice? Really?”  
“Yeah.” 

Patrick smiles, and Pete gives him a toothy grin in response, his eyes crinkling up. Patrick wants to make him smile like that all the time. 

“I fucking like you Pete Wentz. And I’ve been an asshole. Let’s start over.”  
“Fine with me. I’m Pete. I write shitty poetry and sometimes I care too much.”  
“I’m Patrick, I’m a judgemental dick sometimes, but I try.” 

“So, we’re partners I guess.”  
“I guess.” 


End file.
